


Alone is a Verb

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-09
Updated: 2001-02-09
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: It is the evening after Burning Down the House, and Fraser muses on matters linguistic.





	Alone is a Verb

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Alone is a Verb

## Alone is a Verb

by Otsoko

Author's webpage: http://www.finnatics.com/otsoko.htm

* * *

Title: Alone is a Verb  
Author: Otsoko  
e-mail:   
content: Fraser Angst. Fr/RayK preSlash. summary: Fraser muses about language stuff. The night after 'Burning Down the House' Rating: PG. How did that happen? Disclaimer: Alliance owns them all. Now show all the eps on Showcase, you bastards. ACK: Te for help with the last bit. Emmy for general betaness. And Jen for pointing out an embarrassing inconsistancy. Notes. Just listening to old kiwi/Aussie folk-pop. Especially Tim Finn, and especially his sweetly sad "Home (for my Heart)". 

Alone is a Verb 

It was easier in the Territories. It was easier to feel alone when one actually was alone, or by oneself. It made sense. It was simply a recognition of a reality. 

Chicago. Ah, that was a different matter. 

Chicago's Chicago. I was back in Chicago to find the only real friend I had in my exile was gone. I was homeless, billeting in my office at the consulate. Oddly pleased to see Turnbull. One knew where one stood with Turnbull. Respected, distanced. Correctly ... Canadian Canadians were always much more Canadian abroad than at home. 

But one is rarely by oneself in Chicago. So the sense of loneliness is all the more striking. One is constantly surrounded by thousands. Looking down Michigan Avenue at five in the afternoon, one could see more people at one time than I had seen in my entire life put together until that point. 

Not quite true. I had been in Toronto several times, briefly. But other things occupied my mind those times. I worked at shutting out the din and the masses. Successfully. 

Allein. Solo. Tout seul. Bakarrik. Odin. Tan-tu. Alone. 

The Inuit seemed to have it right: 'kissima' 

Because in Inuktitut, 'Alone' isn't a descriptive, it's a verb. It's not something one IS, it is something one DOES. To be alone ... to make oneself alone. And verbs in Inuktatut always require a subject. No infinitive, no way to say just 'alone'. No impersonal construction, no way to say 'one is alone'. No way to talk about 'alone' without identifying the who: kissimi 'he's alone'; kissipi 'you're alone' ... kissima 'I'm alone', 'I make myself alone'. 

Kissima. 

Well, except for a deaf wolf and a dead father. 

And a new partner who had touched me more times during our first shift than all of my previous partners put together. 

It must have always been that I didn't invite other people's touch, although I craved it. But I didn't know how to ask for it. I didn't know how to respond to it. I didn't know how to accept it. I didn't know how to trust it. So if it came, I pretended not to notice, and it usually wasn't repeated. 

Except for Ray. 

He touched me again. 

He gave me a hug when he first saw me. No one had hugged me since ... her. And before her, I could count the number of people on one hand. Grandmother. Mark. Steve. And a couple of grateful members of the citizenry, although they ought not count. The Uniform. They were hugging the uniform and not me. My mum must have done. But I can't honestly say I remember that. I desperately wish that I did. 

Ray Vecchio. The real Ray Vecchio did. A few times. Perfunctorily. Brotherly. With clear fraternal affection, but as embarrassed by it as was I. 

Not this Ray. His arm across my shoulder, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. 

At first, I had thought it was merely his way. But I was quickly disabused of that notion as I observed him keeping a safe distance from everyone. No, this Ray was not -- as the old Ray would have said, disparagingly \-- a 'touchy-feely kind of guy'. Except with me. 

I ignored it, as always. Not knowing how to respond. Not wanting to send the wrong message. Not knowing what the right message was. 

But he didn't stop. 

I wanted to touch him back. But I couldn't. Until it was necessary. Made necessary by the circumstances. Speeding across Chicago in a soon-to-be-aflame Riviera, his foot about to stop the car. 

I had to stop him. 

I had to touch him. 

Because I heard him. I heard every word of his ... confession, admission, as I climbed all over the car looking for the trigger mechanism. My hearing is quite acute. Even with the wind and the speed. 

But to admit that I had heard him would have required a response. And I didn't have one. Except for an overwhelming desire to touch him back. 

Just to touch him. It would be enough. I had my chance and I took it. 

But his response was immediate. "Do not...!" Perhaps his inner leg was not appropriate for a first touch. But his response was clear. And understood. So I vowed to respect his wishes, not to touch him again. 

A long sigh escaped me. 

Ray had told me 'No'. And 'no' meant 'no'. 

Dief looked up at me, demanding to know what I was thinking. So I looked at him so he could read my lips clearly and told him. 

"Ray m'a dit 'non'. Puis, 'non' veut dire 'non'." 

Dief snarled at me. He understood Inuktitut and English well enough, and a bit of Cree, but the other official language eluded him. Well, he was a western wolf. 

I just wasn't sure I wanted him to know about this. 

I liked the look on Ray's face when I asked if he cared to go have some dinner with me. Just a neighbourhood diner. Grilled cheese and fries. And we went over the case, and I saw the flash in his eyes when I mentioned the bullet he had taken. He grinned and made light of it. As though stepping into a bullet was an everyday occurance, even wearing a bullet-proof vest. 

He gave me his impressions of the others at the 27th precinct. He saw how good a lieutenant Welsh was. I agreed. But he said nothing about himself, or his past, or what brought him to fill in for Detective Vecchio. 

He did look at me rather strangely when I told him the story about the caribou on the mountain ledge, in an attempt to get him to be more forthcoming. But he merely noted that I was a freak. 

Fair enough. 

We paid our respective checks and parted company on the sidewalk. I refused his offer of a ride back to the consulate, and thanked him kindly for the company. He seemed disappointed that I had refused the offer of a ride. It had seemed to me that I hardly knew him well enough to make such an imposition, and after all, I did have two legs. 

But he shrugged it off, saying he would see me the next day at the precinct, to do all the paperwork. I nodded. I wanted to say something about how pleasant it was to have someone with whom to have supper, but that also seemed presumptuous. It might make him feel obligated to repeat what might have been a simple gesture to a new partner. Instead I wished him a good evening, and reminded him to drive safely. 

I prayed for him to hug me good night. To hug me again. 

Instead, he nodded by way of reply and headed off. 

I turned and walked back to the consulate, suddenly feeling very alone. He had offered to accompany me. All I had to do was acquiesce. A nod would have sufficed. Instead I was by myself. Alone. 

Kissima. 'I make myself alone.' 

Back at the consulate, I headed directly back to my office. I wasn't quite ready for sleep. I sat on the cot that Constable Turnbull had found for me. 

As I sat there, I almost wished that Turnbull had not gone home. That he might walk in, which would force me to take my head out of my hands, force me to open my eyes, force me to think about someone else. Concentrate on someone, something else. 

I knew that I would crave Ray's touch. That I would never object to his touch. That I would search out opportnities to be touched by him, and to touch him back. Carefully. Correctly. He had made it clear that I was not to touch him. I had to make it equally clear that he was free, even welcome, to touch me. I thought about that, and realized I had no idea how to do that, how to let him know that. 

I was nonetheless sure that this was not a matter on which my father's advice would do me any good. 

All I could do was be ready for it. Accept it when it came. 

I looked at Dief, who was still watching me. I hung my head for a moment, then looked over at him and spoke, enunciating clearly, 

"Kissima." 

He stared at me for a moment, got up and came over and sat between my legs and licked my face. 

I had to smile, and reached down to ruffle the fur behind his neck. 

"Thank you, Dief." 


End file.
